ust like a man might fail in any other business. He
can't write like he used to. It may be all the result of ill-health; I
don't know. His last book, you see, is positively refused. He has made
up his mind that there's nothing but poverty before him, and he can't
understand why I should object to live like the wife of a working-man.'

'Well, I only know that he has placed you in an exceedingly difficult
position. If he had gone away to Worthing for the summer we might have
made it seem natural; people are always ready to allow literary men to
do rather odd things--up to a certain point. We should have behaved as
if there were nothing that called for explanation. But what are we to do
now?'

Like her multitudinous kind, Mrs Yule lived only in the opinions of
other people. What others would say was her ceaseless preoccupation.
She had never conceived of life as something proper to the individual;
independence in the directing of one's course seemed to her only
possible in the case of very eccentric persons, or of such as were
altogether out of society. Amy had advanced, intellectually, far beyond
this standpoint, but lack of courage disabled her from acting upon her
convictions.

'People must know the truth, I suppose,' she answered dispiritedly.

Now, confession of the truth was the last thing that would occur to Mrs
Yule when social relations were concerned. Her whole existence was based
on bold denial of actualities. And, as is natural in such persons, she
had the ostrich instinct strongly developed; though very acute in
the discovery of her friends' shams and lies, she deceived herself
ludicrously in the matter of concealing her own embarrassments.

'But the fact is, my dear,' she answered, 'we don't know the truth
ourselves. You had better let yourself be directed by me. It will be
better, at first, if you see as few people as possible. I suppose you
must say something or other to two or three of your own friends; if you
take my advice you'll be rather mysterious. Let them think what they
like; anything is better than to say plainly. "My husband can't support
me, and he has gone to work as a clerk for weekly wages." Be mysterious,
darling; depend upon it, that's the safest.'

The conversation was pursued, with brief intervals, all through the
day. In the afternoon two ladies paid a call, but Amy kept out of
sight. Between six and seven John Yule returned from his gentlemanly
occupations. As he was generally in